Runs In The Family
by TrixTheFlowery
Summary: An alternate take on Origins about a Cousland who was afflicted with bad blood before The Taint was even a question and how this all affects her journey as a Grey Warden as well as her relationships with those who accompany her. Rated for language, content, mental illness, and a rather depressing story all together.
1. Prologue

_This boy from behind,_

_He looks so like my brother_

_Were he younger,_

_Were I older_

_Age is but a number after all._

_What I know is that I am tired._

_Spring is rising and the equinox birds roost _

_Trees they dare to bud despite the beckon of frost_

_Life will still grow, dear brother,_

_Even when I am gone._

_The discomfort, thick and red_

_It lives in my own veins and it pulls and pricks_

_Until it turns black and acidic,_

_And please brother, do forgive me. _

_The blue-bells bring me no happiness today_

_The sun brings me no solace_

_I have lived a thousand ages it seems and now I must leave_

_Think of a fish trapped in a bucket and you will know _-

"Lady Elissa?" There was a polite rap at the door. "Are you awake my lady?"

She made no move to answer or speak. She only continued to drag her quill feverishly across the parchment beneath it - _If they ask for an epitaph on our family's mausoleum, let this be mine..._

"My lady? Your father calls for your presence."

Elissa made no acknowledgement, only scrawling a few more words of dear love to her brother Fergus before she finally ended it. She took a pull of wine with her free hand.

"Perhaps she is asleep..." The servant mumbled and a bitter smile lit on Elissa's lips; proper sleep had evaded her for three days now. She would catch fleeting hours; a couple at a time when her body demanded it, but apart from that... no. Her mind rushed and stormed and raged and imagined and created. Maker above... she was wild. Mad.

There was no sleep for someone like her: No sleep for a Cousland.

_Life is short, glory eternal..._

"Good morning." She bid the servant, though she did not move. "You may bid my Mother and Father the same, though I will not be meeting their presence today."

A pause followed her words but the servant spoke again, "His Lordship is particularly concerned for your well-being, my Lady. You haven't made an appearance in three days."

Her hand flew almost of its own accord to the pot of ink to her side, knocking it asunder: she was only preparing to commit suicide; she didn't need such interruptions. A black pool spread across the desk and she sighed her weary annoyance, less with the servant and more with the universe itself.

"Bid my mother and father well." She commanded, glaring at the door. "Assure them I am only ill today. And have been for the past three."

Another pause.

"Ill?" The servant repeated.

"Ill." She shot back: This was nothing new to the castle. Lady Elissa Cousland was indeed ill but not with a sickness of the body.

Her distemper started at a young age; innocently enough at first. Things that could be chalked up to temper-tantrums and the result of a life lived in opulence, but over time it became evident that Lady Elissa was far from stable: typical adolescent melancholy and other natural causes aside, the lady was known to be quite prone to the madness. Madness. No one had come up for a better name for it.

She was no invalid; friendly, well-learned, articulated brilliantly and particularly passionate about arts and history but she was suffered spectacularly to peculiar behaviours that came and went like the phases of the moon; some days Elissa was amicable, confident, empowered... downright revolutionary in the way she spoke and handled matters of court and politics. Other days one would find her locked in her room, silent, unspeaking, afraid. She would come to supper and excuse herself before the meal was over.

Promiscuity would find her in these happy, confident periods; she would dance and sing and flirt with suitors, unshakeable and almost frighteningly verbose and inspired. Her keen charm served her well in political matters and her father often remarked on the fact with pride. But the dawn would break and she would be found in her room with bruised arms and legs, bemoaning her existence and her curse.

She would write imaginary tales, poems... almost obsessively. She would paint and practice music but to no end other than to satisfy the torment inside of her, for it seemed that these talents demanded all that she had to offer. Her time, her physical health, her sleep and her study... her very sanity.

All knew that Teryn Cousland could be prone to periods of melancholy, but not nearly as crippling as those of his daughter and so they tread carefully around the young lady for despite her curious disposition, there was little doubt that this woman could be capable of greatness, were that her disease was cured.

On this day she was particularly ill; her humours flowed black and thick and she was in little mood to entertain her father and Arl Howe.

There was another insistent knock on the door.

"My lady... I understand if you are not feeling up to the task but... but your brother is leaving, they say."

Her hands stilled from their frenzied wiping of every visible space that had been blackened with ink.

"Leaving?" She repeated. "Fergus is leaving?"

"Such is word around the castle."

The door swung open and young Lady Cousland presented herself, her eyes wide and bloodshot, her hair unbrushed and tangled. The dress she had last been seen wearing three days ago clung to her, though the bonds of her corset had been loosened for comfort and her chest was splattered with black ink.

Her family thought she might be a mage when these behaviours began to manifest, but the Templars came, and the mages as well and stated that the girl was as devoid of magic as a rock. They suggested the practice of a proper healer; one that might be able to find a source to this rare but disturbing illness and possibly find a way to at the very least subdue it. No answer came. No cure. Only the acknowledgement that Lady Elissa was prone to change states like the moon. A great danger to herself and a great danger to the family name, she was not treated poorly, but rather with delicacy and indulgence for fear of what may happen on the day that someone actually stand up and break her fragile state. It took no master healer to realize that with age, her condition was worsening. At twenty four years old, her temperaments were changing faster and having considerably more destructive effects on the poor girl.

"Why?" She asked. "Why is he leaving early?"

"Arl Howe has arrived and..."

Elissa cut the servant off, feeling like an idiot when tears sprang to her eyes for absolutely no reason. "Shit Arl Howe. I want to know why my brother is leaving early."

The servant sighed, raking his hand through his hair in a patient way: Everyone knew that Fergus and Elissa were about as close as siblings got. The bond they shared was something that had been miraculously left undamaged over the years as Elissa's sanity came into question multiple times and Fergus' did not. He remained capable, balanced and calm in temperament. This fact did not prevent him from defending his younger sister's name to the face of any naysayers or gossips. Maker, Fergus had once yanked her out of a window she was trying to climb out of and held her until she stopped hyperventilating.

"Word comes from King Cailan that The Blight is worse than thought. Arl Howe's men are running late, and troops are needed on the front. Something about a scouting expedition…"

"I see..." Elissa said, batting her eyelashes to free her eyes of tears. "You will inform father that I will make my audience shortly... send my handmaidens if you would. I am in need of a fresh dress."

"Indeed, m'lady." The servant bowed, clearly frightened by her volatile state.

"You needn't fear me." She promised, resting her hand proudly on the heavy wood of the door, looking far more dignified than anyone who hadn't slept for three days ought to. "I am not so dangerous as some say. Only sick." She offered a comforting smile to the servant; it wasn't his fault she was who she was and the words of a rumoured mad-woman likely were not very calming. "Send my maidens." She said again tiredly, closing the door, and staring across the room at the mostly spilled jar of ink, wondering what effects it would have on her, were she to drink it.

_Life is short, glory eternal..._

The words of her house rang through her head and though they were written to inspire, they did nothing but cause her to wander and wonder deeply into their true meaning.

"The red and gold." She bid her hand maidens when they arrived; she may not be on the front with her brother against the blight, but she would wear the colours of her house with pride despite that fact. She may have felt like a steaming pile of horse dung on the inside, but the outside world didn't have to know that.

She stood naked before the mirror and the women wrapped her and bound her in layers of finery that most of Ferelden would envy for all of their days if only for the value of the fabric. They wove the long, dark brown strands of her hair together and made her face up in unassuming and natural paints before finally fitting soft, silken shoes onto her feet and telling her she was ready.

As she looked into the mirror, she hoped she looked so comely on the day of her funeral with her dainty little nose and wide blue eyes that would be shut forever.

That wasn't too much to ask, was it?

_Life is short, glory eternal..._

"Tell my father I am ready."

Her servants curtsied and hurried away and she took the moments of freedom to wipe up a bit more ink and drink a bit more wine before vacating the room, her lavish skirts bustling behind her.

_I could drip ink into my body by way of incision._

_I could climb out my window and drop to the earth below._

_I could strangle myself with a fine silken scarf or bleed my veins dry with a letter opener..._

_I could do all of these things without a thought, simply to encounter exactly what it is like to die._

"Good day, Arl Howe." She bid the man a practised curtsy, rising to extend to her full height, her neck reaching as high and proudly as it could.

"My, haven't you grown?" The Arl remarked, taking in the beauty of her stature that she was not ignorant of.

"Indeed, though some say this is bound to happen with the passing of time." She bantered cleverly, though her eyes did not miss the dark figure standing just outside of the conversation.

"My son Thomas sent his love, though he did not accompany us this time." The Arl said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "Perhaps next time we can arrange for him to join?"

_Oh I doubt I'll be around by that time, my Lordship_. She wanted to say, but instead she smiled like a proper lady and said, "That sounds charming, Arl Howe. Thomas is indeed a charming man. It would be safe to say that marriage would be a possible outcome?"

She did not allow the Arl to speak.

"And who might this be, Father?" She directed her light gaze to Teryn Cousland, never accusatory, but always keen and intuitive.

Her father shifted on the spot, caught off guard by the change in topic, clearing his throat before saying, "Yes... Elissa, this is the Warden Commander, Duncan."

"Indeed it is." She said, smiling placidly and eyeing the dark man up and down. "A warden in my own home. A lady could not be anything but delighted at the honour, good ser." Years of grooming and practice overtook any bilious nature at this time and she smiled delicately at the dark-eyed man. "Though a lady would also wonder what would bring you to her home."

"Recruits." Duncan answered. "There is a Blight coming, and the Grey Wardens are in need of as many as we can find. I came here to seek out as many as I can to join with us."

"Have you spoken with my brother, Fergus?" She asked, smiling coyly. "I believe he would suit your like quite well."

Duncan smiled and rested his hand on the ornate sword at his hip. "In fact I came here hoping that he would care to join us, but Teryn Cousland informs me he has already devoted his energies to King Cailan's efforts. I suppose I will have to do with what else I can find. Every man helps."

"And what of women?" She blurted the question out before she could stop herself; a Blight was huge. It was threatening. She was already willing to kill herself, why not kill herself in pursuit of a greater good?

"Elissa." Her father hissed. "You needn't trouble yourself with these sorts of things."

She could only smirk inwardly behind her lady-like blush when Ser Duncan remarked that she might be just as useful as Fergus.

"I am flattered, Ser." she said. "But I must uphold my duties here. If my father is leaving as soon as he says he is, it would only be mad to abandon Highever now."

"Your daughter has quite the wit about her, doesn't she, Cousland?" Howe remarked, chuckling warmly. Elissa's lips lifted; it felt gratifying to get recognition from someone outside of her own house.

"You have no idea." Her father said, putting his hand on the small of her back. "I am charging you with the care of the castle while I and Fergus are gone." He said. "There is no threat to our safety, and I don't doubt your ability to run things while I am away."

_And how will I run things while I am a broken corpse on the drawbridge?_ She dared to ask. But she didn't. She bit her lip and smiled. Perhaps she would just wait to free herself until the Blight was ended.

"Of course, my Lordship." She curtsied and passed one more look to Duncan. A look of pleading.

_Take me away._

_Life is short, glory eternal..._


	2. Rabbit Will Run

"_Last I saw mother she smelled like a rose__  
__When they caught me the captain, he opened my nose__  
__'Cause a rabbit will run, and the wind takes a bird where it blows__  
__We all traded lovers and woke up alone__  
__And we clapped for the king, though our fingers were cold__  
__And I still have a prayer, one that I cannot control__ "_

_Rabbit Will Run – Iron & Wine_

She wasn't asleep when they attacked. She wasn't even in her bed-clothes. She wasn't even in her chambers. She had been sitting in the lounge, propped up in a huge leather arm-chair, poring over another ancient and tragic book of poetry.

_Such depressive things likely aren't helping_. She tried to convince herself. _But I feel such relief in these words that belong to someone else… the poet speaks to me from the pain that built up so much in his own heart…_

Her anxiety had eased over the course of the day. She had bid Fergus goodbye and found some time to run her hound. She still felt unbearably sad, but no longer deigned to kill herself now that she was alone.

She looked to the door every now and again as she took the time to turn the pages in her fingers. Part of her hoped that the Warden Commander she had seen earlier would announce himself and tell her that there were no other worthy recruits to the Grey Wardens in the castle and that it'd have to be her that would leave Highever with him.

No such thing happened though, and Elissa knew it was un-ladylike to carry such childish hopes so late in the night. She did know though that she hated the fact that the only excuse she had to leave this place was about to slip past her fingers.

She frowned when a knock actually did occur and she stood from the chair, her fine skirts unfolding around her knees as she did so.

"You may enter." She said and she took an unwilling step back when one of the castle guards tumbled through the door, breathing heavily and seemingly holding his insides in his body with his hands.

"They've attacked…" The guard gurgled, fresh blood oozing down the corner of his mouth as he swayed on the spot, clinging to the door. Elissa immediately rushed to the guard's aid, not caring when he knocked her off her feet when he finally gave way and fell into her arms.

"Who?" She asked, hurriedly tearing her skirt hem away and pressing it against the fatal wound on the man's abdomen.

"Arl Howe's men…" The guard choked. "They waited… they waited until night fell and they… turned on us." He dragged a bloody hand across her face. "M'lady… you must escape."

"Escape?" She whispered, dazed, before shaking her head. "No. Where's my father? My mother?"

"No." The guard hissed, his breath becoming ragged and indicative of his imminent death. "You need to survive. Tell Fergus…" His breathing halted and his eyes blanked. Elissa stood up and a shuddering breath swept through her body as she tried to grasp the reality of the situation.

She grasped it soon enough, along with the hilt of the dead guard's sword.

_If this is how I am to die, so fucking be it._

The weapon she yielded was fine, but she used it clumsily; swordplay was not a priority in the Cousland's house. Not for Elissa anyway. While her father agreed that it was indeed prudent that she be able to take up arms and protect herself should the need to arise, she was certainly no knight and she hacked her way grittily to her parent's bedchamber, arriving bruised and bloodied.

"Mother!" She shouted, pounding on the door with a balled fist and surely broken knuckles. "Mother it's me!"

The door swung open and Lady Cousland revealed herself, sword in hand, wearing the family armour.

"Have you been in here this whole time putting that plate on by yourself?" Elissa asked, unable to prevent the flippant remark from leaving her lips.

"Where's yours?" Her mother chided. "This isn't a game, Elissa."

Elissa pointed down the hall with her bloody sword. "I've killed eight so far: There are more coming. We need to find Father." She started pulling her mother in one direction but the elder Cousland halted and started pulling in the opposite direction. "He left to try and stall the men from reaching us, Elissa. We must escape. If something happens to us, and he fails it will have been for naught."

Elissa hauled stubbornly in her original direction. "Are you really going to let Howe's men take Highever from us?" She snarled, her blood angry. "I would die with the rest of the men who would die for our family, rather than scurry out a tunnel in the larder like some sort of rat."

"Elissa please!" Her mother begged. "What good will our family be if we all lay dead?"

Elissa sighed and wiped a bloody hand over her face, smearing the red evidence of her astounding desire to live over her cheeks. It was at that point she suddenly realized: _I don't want to die_.

_Not by poison, not by falling, not by the sword. _

_I want to stay alive._

"Very well." She finally caved. "To the larder."

It disturbed her a great deal, she decided as she ran as fast as her feet could carry her, that her already heavy dress was now tattered and made even heavier by the blood she was drenched with: This was not the purpose she was bred for. She was bred to be a lady of court and marry into another family of noble blood and produce lovely little children and be ever-charming and witty.

There was a squish and another spurt of blood as she slipped her blade between the ribs of another one of Howe's men.

_No, a dress was certainly not suited to this sort of activity._

_But,_ she shrugged inwardly as she struggled to yank the sword out of the corpse. _It seems I am._

Her vision flashed gold and blue when a gloved fist met with her face and she felt hot blood pouring from her newly broken nose as she struggled to get off of her back and find her feet.

"Elissa!" Her mother cried, somewhere from the shattering flashes of colour and she blinked feverishly, dragging her sword up from the ground, the tip of it scraping against the stone: It felt so heavy.

She heard a malevolent chuckle to her right, "This one has spirit. From my experience those ones squirm the most."

She wanted to sob, break down, fall to her knees and let them take her away and do what they would with her. This was too hard. It was too much work. She was a lady, not a warrior.

"Elissa! Swing your sword!" Her mother shouted as if giving her daughter a fair scolding for stealing sweets from the kitchen.

A cracked wail fell from her lips and blood dribbled down her chin and made her face itch and she narrowly avoided another blow. "Mother I… I can't." She dodged another blow, though this time her sword clattered to the ground. She looked up in time to see Howe's man, arms above his head, ready to bring an axe down on her.

_Very well… let it be._

The blow never came and the man fell sideways, dead with blood steadily pouring from the ear-to-ear gash in his neck that had been put there by Lady Cousland.

"Pick that sword up, Elissa." She panted. "You pick it up and you do not drop it again, do you hear me? I am not losing my only daughter on this night."

"Yes mum." Elissa whispered, pulling herself up with her sword.

"Come. The way from here should be clear." Lady Cousland hurried away and Elissa did her best to keep up despite the bloodied hem of her dress catching frequently on the gore that surrounded them.

She felt so numb by the time they rushed into the larder to see her father bleeding on the floor that she didn't even cry out when she saw him in such a state; she had seen the guard earlier. She knew her father was not long for this world.

"You have to leave…" he explained, his face ghastly white. "If the Couslands are to survive… if Highever is to remain in our hands… escape. Find Fergus…"

"Mother…"

"I am staying."

"But –"

She waved away the argument before it began. "Bryce, you are too injured to leave… Elissa, I love you dearly. Send Fergus our love and be very certain to bury a dagger hilt deep in Arl Howe the next time you are given chance."

Elissa looked up to realize that the Warden Commander, Duncan was standing above them.

"Where were you?" She breathed as fury rose in her. "Where have you been?! You could have stopped all of this, you wretch!" She shot to her feet and made a threatening step towards the warden. "What of the great, fabled bravery of the Grey Wardens?"

"Elissa." His father scolded softly. "Duncan brought me here. He protected me so that I may get this far and… and say goodbye."

Elissa chewed on her lip and felt a muscle twitch in her jaw. "Is this true?" She demanded.

"It is, my lady." Duncan said calmly, apparently not at all un-nerved by her furor. "I can also ensure you make it out of here alive. Though, Teryn Cousland, I ask for something in exchange."

"Yes, yes… I know what you speak of." The dying Teryn said from the floor, coughing on a bit of blood. "Let my daughter become a warden then, in exchange for your service."

"Service?" Elissa snapped, nearly completely unhinged at this point. "You lay dying on the floor, Father. I will not be bartered over like some sort of livestock for a price that is wholly unfair!"

Duncan remained calm, almost amused and it only inflamed Elissa's temper further.

"You mustn't be deceitful, m'lady… you desired this."

She thought her teeth might crack, she was pressing them so hard together.

"So be it then." She said. "But let it be known that I leave with you for that reason only."


	3. Opheliac

"_Dispute not with her: she is lunatic." -William Shakespeare, Richard III_

Days of silence followed their departure from Highever. She had little to say to Duncan and once or twice had even considered dropping a large stone on his head while he slept and she sat by the fire until the sun rose, kept awake by her despair. She entertained these thoughts like someone who was reputedly insane would; they knocked on the door of her mind and she cautiously let them in, offering them cakes and mead before finally announcing they had overstayed their welcome.

Rather than murdering the man who saved her, she passed the time by dealing with the torn remnants of her fine dress as best she could, tearing the majority of the hem off around the ankles. She wished for a sewing kit, but she dared not open her mouth and ask Duncan for one and she doubted she could sew anyway; her broken knuckles were swollen and black and even opening and closing her hands caused her tremendous pain. She made no mention of this as she travelled with the warden, only staring regally forward whenever he made mention of her injuries.

The same routine followed day after day until they were tearing up camp one morning and Duncan was the one to speak.

"I wasn't in Highever for long, but I was there long enough to hear of you." He said, rolling his bedroll neatly. "You know what they say of you, don't you?"

She shot him her customary distant glare and went back to struggling with her own bedroll: She was poorly suited to living outdoors. She was covered in spider bites and disliked the greasy texture her hair had developed due to the fire.

Duncan ignored her silence and went on as if she had said, _"Why no, Ser, I haven't any idea what they might say of me around Highever."_

"They call you _The Mad Cousland_." He chuckled as if he had told a clever joke and tied the perfect bedroll onto his pack. "I'm starting to think they're wrong. You aren't mad: You're a damn mute. They should have called you _Cousland of the Silent Sisters_."

_The Silent Sisters are dwarves, you complete fool_. She thought, shooting him another stubbornly proud look as he stepped over to her and into her space, nudging her out of the way and setting about handling her bedroll.

"I am capable of that myself, Ser." She said blackly, making a grab for the bedroll.

"So you didn't lose the ability to speak." Duncan said, yanking the roll away from her reach and neatly rolling it within a matter of seconds. "We need to travel quickly, Elissa. If we leave in the next fifteen minutes we can reach Ostagar by mid afternoon. We have much to do while we are there and precious time to do it."

"I am the Lady of Highever, Ser, it is custom that you address me as such." She argued with the haughtiness of someone who was fully aware of the fact they were covered in days old blood and in need of a good bathing and a meal – she was only arguing for the sake of it at this point and she knew it; Duncan was the only available option for venting her spleen and that was good enough for her.

He laughed again and shoved the bedroll into her arms, ignoring her gasp of pain as her fingers clenched around the bundle automatically before she could stop them.

"A warden relinquishes all titles. Get used to your birth name; you will be hearing it more often." He flipped open his own pack and dug around. "Sit on that stump over there."

"Why?"

"I'm no healer, but you will be useless to me if we don't tend to your hands. I'm no fool. You are stout in spirit, _Mad Cousland_, but I can see how much pain you're in, despite how well you think you hide it."

She inhaled sharply and as a point of defiance she attempted to strap the bedroll to her pack with fumbling, broken hands. She failed miserably.

She understood with resignation that she had a duty now and Duncan was right when he pointed out that she had wanted to become a grey warden to begin with. With this in mind she stood from the pack and sat on the stump and allowed him to apply a poultice to her swollen knuckles and bind them with linen.

"You blame me for what happened to your family." He said turning her hand gently so that he could wrap it properly. "I can't change what you think of me in that respect, but know that Howe was going to betray you regardless of whether I was there or not. I cannot prepare you for everything that you will face as a warden, and no doubt it will take time for you to adapt to this life, but the wardens are a brotherhood: We look out for each other. If it puts your mind at ease any, know that I will have your back if you will have mine." He tied off the linen and stood. Elissa experimentally flexed her fingers and was pleased to find that they already felt better due to the poultice applied to them.

"And what of Howe?" She whispered.

"A grey warden's first duty is to defend against the Blight, but there will come a time when the Arl will be called to justice for his treachery."

She was silent for a time, appearing to be mulling over her thoughts: Duncan's words were like cold broth served to an imprisoned man, but an imprisoned man was happy for nourishment, regardless of quality. "I am not _The Mad Cousland_." She declared. "I am not mad… at least… I do not think I am. I do not feel mad. I loathed when people called me that. Fergus tried to keep me from hearing them, but I know they said it when I wasn't present." She properly fastened her bedroll to her pack this time and hoisted it over her shoulder; the fabric under it was stiff with dry blood. "Does it give you pause to have someone with the reputation of being mad join the grey wardens?"

Duncan laughed earnestly, almost warmly in fact. "Dear lady, if you think you're the most uncertain candidate I've ever had, you had best think again." He rested a hand on her shoulder. "We take all sorts into the brotherhood: People with reputations far worse than yours. With the wardens, you will be given the chance to learn what honour means. To fight for it and to uphold it… and you certainly won't be doing it alone."

She nodded rather solemnly, fearing for herself and for those around her; it was difficult enough living in a castle full of people who had to contend with her fits of delirium… how would a force of battle-trained men handle it?

"It's just over that ridge there." Duncan said, waving his finger towards the hills. "We should set off. As I said, we have much to do."

Elissa followed Duncan's footsteps through the narrow paths and treed forests, keeping a wary and inexperienced eye out for any danger. As they walked, Duncan told Elissa more of the history of the Grey Wardens, and although she knew much of it already, it was somewhat calming to listen to someone else speak over the tumult of anxiety that roiled in her mind, constantly jabbing her with accusatory questions.

This was commonplace for Elissa; getting utterly trapped and lost in a sea of never-ending negative thoughts. One came, and then another and another and soon they were all queuing up to take a swing at her delicate psyche.

Duncan stopped walking when he noticed she had halted, swaying on the spot where she stood, her face suddenly gone very pale.

"Elissa, are you okay? – "

Her only answer was the shake of her head and she turned to the side of the pathway and emptied the contents of her stomach on the road. She held her hair over her shoulder with one hand as she continued to vacate her insides. Finally she stood and wiped her mouth on the soiled sleeve of her dress with far more dignity than her current situation called for.

_I could cause the saddest poet to weep would that know the feelings that I do_. She wanted to say, but she kept her words to herself and passed by Duncan, continuing down the road ahead of him.

If there was one thing she was not going to do, it was complain. Complaints resulted in questions more often then not, and questions begged for answering, and she did not dream of having to explain herself to anyone.

A schooled and courtly woman, however, she managed to keep her feet when she found herself a short time later, explaining everything to King Cailan himself.

It appeared to take the monarch more than a second glance to realize who Elissa was through the grime that coated her, initially remarking to Duncan only the observance that she was a woman and therefore a peculiar choice for a recruit. It took a proper introduction from Duncan and Elissa standing a little taller and holding her head just the slightest bit higher for the King to recognize the face that he had been presented with on canvas before; it was no black mark in anyone's book that Elissa was at one point up for consideration to become Cailan's Queen-consort. Naturally, Anora Mac Tir, having a more sensational background was the preferred choice and thus, the woman chosen. Elissa bore no ill will to either party; choose healthy stock to breed royal babies she opined. Healthy stock she was not and that fact was likely not overlooked when her name came up as an option for a noble bride.

"My Lady." Cailan chuckled, his friendly eyes lighting up, pressing his lips to the back of her hand despite the dirt. "You must forgive me. I failed to recognize your fair face at first sight. Your portrait does your true beauty little justice."

"Does the filth and gore that coats my visage slip past my King's sight, or might he simply choose to see past it?" She replied – banter and a sharp wit was the lifeline of any noble involved in stately affairs.

Words had power when one willed them to, and being able to wield them with efficiency and poise was a talent that was instilled in Elissa from an early age.

"Only a liar would attempt to convince you to believe that a hot bath and some new clothes would take away from your current... allure, but it is no lie that leaves my lips when I say that I am genuinely pleased to finally lay eyes on Teryn Cousland's daughter."

Elissa's lip curled pleasantly; downright charmingly in fact. King Cailan certainly knew how to speak the words that would please a woman, and she didn't doubt for a moment that was the only way he knew how to do such a thing, based on his handsome, well sunned face, golden hair and strong looking hands. If that was the case, Anora was indeed a lucky young bride.

_And of the Mac Tirs..._

She tilted her head politely in the direction of the plate clad general standing next to Cailan.

"Teryn Loghain." She acknowledged the man with the faintest downward tilt of her forehead after reminding herself that she was a grey warden now and was no longer called to curtsey at the men. "It lightens my heart to see you are here and well. My mind fancies that a man like you would be most sought after to lead during a Blight and somehow, here we stand."

By this point she had nearly forgotten that not half an hour ago she was on her hands and knees by the side of the road, being sick and quaking with fear: Swords and armour and brotherhoods were unfamiliar territory for her but people... speaking with them and presenting some outward illusion that she was frail and delicate... that was as natural as breathing.

"My Lady." Loghain said, acknowledging her greeting. "My most true and heartfelt sympathies. The loss of your family is an act of treachery that will not be overlooked. Teryn Bryce was a good man."

"Indeed he was." Elissa said. "My thanks." She changed the subject at the sudden mention of her family. "Fergus – have you seen him? Has he been told?"

"Last reported, your brother and his company were still out scouting the wilds." Loghain rested his hand on the pommel of the grand sword at his hip. "Should they arrive before nightfall, I will have the gate sentries send him your way." He answered in a rather droning, monotonous voice that seemed to drip with disinterest and Elissa couldn't help but wonder exactly how true end heartfelt the man's sympathies for her family truly were.

She studied the abrupt lines and sharp angles of the general's face as Cailan and Duncan embroiled themselves in an argument regarding the handling of the Blight; their words quickly went over her head and she found herself glancing around the camp; smoke from multiple fires rose above the trees surrounding them, the 'clink' of hammer on anvil could be heard somewhere close by, and despite the sad truth that many of these men would die tomorrow, there was singing and merriment to be heard around the ruin.

She was brought back to reality when she realized all three men were waiting for her to say something. She felt foolish, imagining how she looked, staring glassily off into nothingness while they spoke of important matters.

"My apologies, Majesty, Sers... my mind is often led astray like a fool into a forest of faeries." She smiled delicately again at her own expense, "Though I am told this aids me in observing a great deal of things that most would miss. I have yet to decide if this is a blessing or a curse..."

Duncan, looking rather amused was the first to speak. "Once you've finished following your faeries... and I suggest you make it quick – you may find some fellow recruits around the camp. There are two others, and of course you'll also find one of my most newest recruits, Alistair, over up that pathway over there. Join him and the others and visit me by the fire before nightfall. As I said... we haven't much time."

Cailan shot her another dashing grin, "However, we would be cruel to expect the Lady of Highever to walk around camp in a tattered rag: I am afraid you will not find a hot bath in a place such as this, but the river is just beyond those trees, and privacy is not difficult to find. You will need suitable clothing as well... as striking a maiden as you are, you are now called to be a grey warden and must arm yourself as such. I shall have something well-suited to you sent to your tent."

Duncan looked rather disapproving of the indulgence, but seemed to think better of voicing his disagreement. She bid the men farewell and wasted little time finding the tent set aside with her, quickly locating a scratchy wool towel and setting off for the river that Cailan had mentioned; the opportunity to bathe had presented itself and though the lack of hot water indeed dampened her spirits slightly, she couldn't help but think she might feel a little better once she scrubbed away the physical proof of Howe's betrayal that marred her skin.

She took her time walking up the banks of the river a ways, finding a well-treed grotto of sorts where current was stilled and the water was clear. Her feet squelched in the mud as she discarded her haggard silk shoes on the grass and inched into the water, inhaling sharply as the frigid snow-melt nipped at her toes and ankles and gooseflesh erupted all over her body. She lifted a foot from the water and wrinkled her nose at the distinct line of pale flesh that met with a shade of dark brown and grey that was yet untouched by the river. She slid off the ornate sword belt that held her family's blade and rested it gently on the grass before pulling what was left of her dress over her head and discarding it in a much less reverent heap nearby.

With resolve, she filled her lungs with air and drove forward, splashing into the water until she was deep enough to dive headlong into its depths, persisting although every nerve in her body seemed to be shattered all at once.

She hadn't thought that such cold was possible. Had she known, she might have never complained about a hot summer day again.

Elissa finally surfaced, standing on the slippery rocks under her, desperately trying to gain her footing as they scratched her feet and bruised her ankles. She shivered violently and all she wanted to do was sprint back to the shore as quickly as her feet would allow her. She looked down at her glistening skin and knew this would not be practical until she scrubbed away the stains and the stink on herself.

She started with her hair – once lovingly tended to, brushed twice daily by her handmaidens, washed weekly with fine Antivan soaps that smelled of lavender, and styled each morning with intent and great care – was greasy, matted, dry in places and practically soaked with oiliness in others. Her fingers caught in the slick bramble as she tried to work out the blood and the sweat as best she could, but gave up after a fashion because her ears had gone numb and she wasn't making much progress with the grease or tangles. She sighed, glad she had at least rinsed away the blood and soot.

She did her best to clean her skin, knowing that the stale smell of sweat and the sweet smell of smoke would linger despite her best efforts, but at least she could see the light freckles that covered her shoulders and with effort, the dusty brown tinge her skin had developed was gone. Verging on clean as well as hypothermic, she slipped her way back to the bank and wrapped the towel around her, still shivering quite hard. She understood now why Fergus looked so wretched whenever he returned home from a long period away.

Standing on the bank, she wrung out her hair, feebly attempting once more to comb her fingers through it in an effort to tease it back into some sort of order; it wasn't happening. She wrapped herself in the towel again, dried the remainder of her body and loathingly pulled the stinking, ruined dress back over her head to cover herself before tucking the towel and her sword belt under her arm and setting off back down the river, undeniably cold, but feeling renewed regardless.

The favour of King Cailan had not been missed by her and she wondered how much of that had to do with their near-betrothal and how much it had to do with his reputation for being a benevolent and caring man. He looked at her with fancy in his eyes, but much of her told her that he looked at many people this way. Birds sung around her and the sun heated her damp hair and she remembered Duncan's disinterested look and that caused her pause; perhaps she would be forced to relinquish all titles, but should it be call for her to also relinquish all station and bearing as well? Was she expected to become nothing more than a foul-mouthed, poorly mannered man? She didn't want that; if Elissa Cousland had nothing else in this world, she had her words, her temperance, and her cunning to use them. Someone with such gifts could not be expected to happily stroll about a battlefield, cleaving off heads with a broadsword, right?

_Right?_

She lifted a fir branch that drooped part way over the pathway and stepped out of the trees and back into the well-lit camp. She attracted strange looks as she wandered through the small city of tents and campfires; fleeting, curious glances that didn't indicate recognition of any sort, but only the acknowledgement that there was someone new within their surely well-acquainted fold. She ignored the eyes that followed her with a well-practiced mask of indifference; these people didn't know who she was. They didn't deserve to know who she was, so the longer she could remain insignificant to them, the better.


	4. La Folia

"_Who are you? What is your name?__  
__You wish to leave; yet you'll remain__  
__This night we play a most dangerous game__  
__There is both rhyme and reason__  
__And passion in my crimes"_

_-The Magician, Jex Thoth_

Upon locating her tent, she lifted the flap and dropped her dress and sword on the bedroll that had been spread out for her, her eyes almost immediately drifting to the burlap bundle that sat on the chest she had taken the towel from earlier.

She let the towel fall to the ground and where it gathered around her ankles, and she crouched naked in front of the bundle, lifting the sewing pin that held a scrap of parchment to it.

_Lady Elissa, you will soon abandon your title in order to pursue your fellowship with the grey wardens of Ferelden. Befitting a lady of your current status, let this be a token of my sympathy, my affection and my everlasting gratitude that it might serve to lift your spirits and protect you well in the days and years to come. I will send someone along shortly to fit you. Your faithful servant, Cailan R._

Her cheeks reddened in the privacy of her tent at the blatant meaning that bled through the inked words of Cailan's message. It was not an arguable fact that Kings were enitled to behave how they pleased and the intent of this message was clearly not meant to be missed by Elissa and she wondered; were things really going so poorly with Anora?

She cleared her throat and let the parchment flutter to the ground beside her and she unwound the bundled gift to find herself staring at a fine suit of light armour made of some of the richest leather she had ever laid eyes on; it was dark and supple, stained a rich chestnut brown.

She unfolded each article and examined it, taking into consideration the painstaking effort and amount of detail that went into each buckle and seam. This armour was built for practicality and speed and was likely of the design Cailan used for his lesser-known foot soldiers that saw little action on the field and more in the shadows, the ones who could be found working the tips of their daggers into jars of poison and fixing their arrowheads to their shafts with wax so that they might snap off in a targets body and kill him faster.

She tested the leather of one of the gloves provided; it was sturdy and tough, but still remained flexible due to the leather being fixed together to take into account the pivotal and intricate potential of fingers and wrists.

She shook her head and stood, her woo fading quickly at the realization that no gift like this came without expectation. Entirely befuddled, she pushed aside the rest of the armour and donned the fresh small clothes along with the breeches and tunic that were included. Truthfully, she preferred skirts to breeches, opting to ride side-saddle when her brother and she went riding, only donning pants of any sort the rare occasions she did fence in the yard or practice archery. She glanced in passing at the armour again when a glint of silver caught her periphery. Upon further inspection, set on the chest, no bigger than a sovereign was her family's sigil: A wreath of laurel crossed in the shape of uplifted wings.

_Life is short, glory eternal..._

The symbol of her house represented many things: While some houses bore fantastic and impressive heraldry, such as lions and falcons and stags, the Cousland's crest was unassuming to the eye and easily overlooked at first. Elissa learned from her youngest days however, precisely how intentional the meaning of those leaves were; laurel was a symbol of peace and protection, first and foremost. It was said to ward against evil spirits and demons. It was also said to be rich in magical properties (she normally neglected telling anyone that she knew this much,) but laurel was a cleansing plant that was said to increase ones awareness, both in this realm and the Fade. As a young girl, she found a chapter in a tome in the study telling of laurel placed under an individual's pillow at night granting them dreams and inspiration, poetry and a deeper connection to the world of the Fade itself. She always wondered if it could, but had never dared to find out...

In short, laurel was a powerful symbol. It did not boast the fierce claws and mane of a lion, nor the sharp teeth and raw strength of a bear, but it was a symbol of victory and connection.

"Lady Cousland?" A voice issued through the tanned leather of the tent and Elissa stood up, lacing her breeches hurriedly before pulling aside the flap.

The seamstress wasted no time stepping into the tent and pulling out a measure. She looked up at Elissa and with slight exasperation, sighed, "You mean you haven't put it on yet?" She asked rhetorically, her thin arms falling to her sides. "His Majesty told me to drop everything I was doing and hurry right on over here to get you fit up properly. Maker save me - you know I got at least a dozen men out there needing their breeches mended or their socks in need of stitchin' up?"

Flushing with shock at the way the seamstress spoke to her, Elissa opened and closed her mouth a few times before finding words. "I was bathing in the river... I only just got back." She straightened as tall as the tent would allow. "I may not be a Lady for much longer, but your tone is not appreciated, miss."

"Right." The seamstress said, tucking a shock of greying hair behind her ear and tossing the bodice of the armour at Elissa. "Like you said, you ain't gonna be a fancy Lady for much longer, so we might as well get this over with then, eh? I got work to do."

Elissa sighed and began fitting the pieces that compromised the splendid armour onto her body, reaching awkwardly around to tighten the buckles at the side, and fumbling as she tried to jam her linen wrapped knuckles into the gloves.

"Just leave those." The seamstress groaned.

So on went the cured leather breeches, and then went on the bracers, and then went the shin guards and so on until Elissa was fully covered by the elegant, fresh smelling leather, and she was pleased to find that for the most part it fit quite well; it was slightly loose at the shoulders and a little bit tight at the hip, but apart from that it felt surprisingly comfortable. Even the boots fit well.

The seamstress rushed and hmmm'ed and pressed her measure to Elissa's inseam, and wrapped it around her bust, and finally rocked back on her ankles, wiping away another strand of hair before delivering her verdict.

"It fits pretty right. Won't need much taking in. You're certainly tall enough to fit it, but you ain't got the muscle to fill it out." She laughed rather cruelly, "Don't know why King Cailan is sendin' you off to battle in this. You ever swung a sword in your life, _my lady_? Waste of good leather if you ask me." She stood and looked at Elissa expectantly and when the Lady of Highever just stared at her cluelessly she waved her hand at her, "Well take it off then! The Blight ain't gonna wait for a sodding piece of armor to be stitched!"

Relieved when the flustered seamstress left, Elissa bound her miserable hair with a leather thong and buckled her sword around her hip, leaving the tent to attack the next on her list of items to see through; the recruits apart from her. She knew herself well enough to know that the longer she sat in the tent alone, the more disengaged she would become, particularly after the seamstress's incredibly demoralizing speech.

She squinted into the low afternoon sun, and took her first few steps into the camp feeling like an actual fixture of it rather than a lost spirit caught in the throng of people. She passed stalls where good luck pendants and charms were sold, and she edged around stern looking Templars, all alike in their opulent armour, she nearly stopped at the blacksmith to see ask about his wares; she was not suited to a longsword and she wished to look at what other options she had, but with sadness she realized her entire fortune was left behind when she fled and had likely been looted and distributed amongst Howe's men; she hadn't a copper to her name for the first time in her life. All she had was her name, and in hours, that would be taken from her too. Selling the sword crossed her mind briefly, and she actually stood in place for a time, her hand wrapped around the hilt, withdrawing the weapon to half-length, considering the outcomes of the transaction.

"Fancy blade, that."

She looked up at the remark. A dogged looking man leaned against a heap of rubble. He had a mug of ale in one hand and a pipe in the other.

The sword slid back into its sheath with a clear ringing and Elissa surveyed the man.

"Well met," She said after a moment. "Grey Warden recruit."

"That easy to tell is it?" The man snorted, taking a long pull of the ale before reefing hard on the pipe. He coughed and a good deal of smoke billowed into Elissa's face; the foul odour caused her nose to itch. "Daveth, they call me. What name might match the face of the clever shrew interrogating me?"

"Elissa." She replied, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her sword, if only for something to do with them. "Cousland. Though I am told that matters little anymore, for as Grey Wardens we are all to be equal."

Incredulity lit the narrow face of Daveth as he puffed on the pipe again and took another generous swig of ale. "A woman then? In the Grey Wardens? Didn't know they took women..." He swayed rather drunkenly.

Elissa smiled kindly, "I didn't know they took drunks."

"Nah." Daveth waved away the idea. "You got the wrong idea about me, pigeon. I'm a blighted cutpurse, not a drunk. It's just... seeing as I - we're to become Grey Wardens... may's'well take the time to celebrate my final hours of freedom in the best way possible: Drunk, 'n full of tobacco. I'm lucky for that, you know? I wouldn't be here drinking this watered down piss if it weren't for Duncan." He pointed slyly at Elissa, "You. What did you do to get conscripted?"

She laughed lightly, highly, cheerily. "Why, good Ser, I am only The Mad Cousland." She answered innocently before stalking away.

_Only a man with nothing to lose would be drinking away his last night of freedom._

Daveth had made himself easy to pick out, and he had given away too much due to his lack of inhibition, but despite her efforts, she could not find the other recruit. No amount of asking pointedly, no observance of peculiar behaviour seemed to stand out; a potential recruit would be like Daveth, piss drunk, detached and fidgety like herself, or pacing and nervous like almost everyone else in the camp who didn't fall into the other two categories. In a place like this, with a battle of such magnitude hanging so close, it was nearly to impossible to judge based on intuition alone and it soon became clear to her that this other fellow didn't want to be found, so she wandered vaguely in the direction Duncan had indicated earlier, feeling just as lost as she looked.

Carried voices came from the top of the ruined stairs around the corner and she had been about to ascent them when something caught her eye in the wild growth jutting out between the cracked stones at the edge of the ruin's foundation; laurel leaves, small, fragile and new. She diverted her course without a thought and stooped over the young growths, transfixed by their survival in such a torn place. In the back of her mind she acknowledged that one of the two voices at the top of the stairs was being subjected to a most cruel jape; a most sarcastic sassing indeed. A mage from what she could hear, for she overheard the words "Chantry" and "Templar"...

She plucked a small twig of laurel leaves and tucked it behind her ear, advancing up the stairs in time for an incredibly flustered mage to crash into her shoulder with his own. No apology was offered and he only cast a foul look at her before disappearing into the camp.

Elissa frowned and massaged her already bruised shoulder. Were she at home in Highever, she would have felt entirely comfortable chiding the mage for his lack of attentiveness, but here in the wild, she was starting to realize that the world, with its drunks and young laurel bushes, was no longer at her mercy.

She lifted her hand off from her shoulder, noting that the linens around her hands were in need of changing; pale yellowish stains were spreading across her knuckles as her body worked to heal itself.

"Good day, Ser." She said when she finally crested the broken steps. She rested one wrecked hand on the pommel of her sword and curtsied despite herself, stopping halfway through the motion when she realized this and ending up doing more of an awkward looking squat instead.

The grey warden blinked. "Do you have a bramble caught in your breeches? Happens to me all the time."

Elissa felt her face tint in a most feminine way. "No, Ser. I do not have brambles in my breeches. I only forgot that I need no longer curtsy at every person who crosses my path." She laughed clearly, making light of her own foolishness and closing the distance between herself and the warden. "Lady Elissa Cousland." She presented herself, fully titled, proud, and unafraid; she shared common ground with the other recruits, but this man fell under the same category as Duncan: He was someone she would have to get a feel for and learn from, just like she had learned much in her deliberately stony days of silence with Duncan that had told her much about him.

"The third of Duncan's recruits." The warden observed, crossing his arms conversationally. "The one that seems to have set half the camp in an uproar over a suit of armour." There was a haughtiness in his blue eyes that was not malicious, but rather teasing. "And here I was wondering why King Cailan would be spending so much time lavishing attention and gifts on a hairy, ugly, Grey Warden recruit: Duncan didn't tell me you're a woman… or a Cousland at that."

"That is the second time today my sex has been called to question, but only the first time for my name." She lifted an eyebrow. "Most shuffle away quietly, or kiss my hand, or ask what I would prefer for dinner."

"I could do all of those things." He admitted readily, "But I wouldn't dream of imposing on a King who has his eye set on a woman already, and I hear that kissing can be habit forming."

She tapped her fingers against the hilt of her sword. "For all of this clever conversation we share, I still find myself a stranger to your name, Ser." She said pleasantly enough, but with an edge of expectation. "Unless we shall know each other only by 'Grey Warden' or 'You' or 'Begging your pardon ser, please can you help me sharpen my sword?'" She dispensed another cunning smile.

"Duncan always picks the witty ones. Has that sense of humour gotten you far in life?"

Her smile did not fade, though behind it, not very deep inside of her, something that might have had fangs grinned as well. "You've only caught me on a good day." She jested, though there was a seed of truth planted in her words. "All humour aside, I already know who you are: Alistair, you are called, and Duncan told me I might find you here. Indeed I have been armoured by His Majesty, bathed in an ice cold river, and met Daveth, my fellow recruit, who, may I add, is very well into his cups despite the sun still being rather high in the sky. Yet I have been unable to find my second counterpart… the third recruit." She wriggled her toes in her new leather boots, stretching the stiff material in an effort to break it in.

"It doesn't matter. We'll find him on our way to Duncan; the sun is setting and it's time to meet."


	5. Adagio

"_You've fallen barefoot past the tree line__  
__beaten, boned-eyed, butchered, swayed__  
__a thousand whitefish floating belly up__  
__in the spirit that I crave."_

_- Black Water, Timber Timbre_

On their way out into the wilds, Elissa had collected her newly altered armour and slipped into it, at ease with its comfort and flexibility.

Soon after she found these benefited her little as she clashed with what seemed like endless darkspawn; these things, they were like creatures from her most delirious nightmares brought to life. Already over-active of the mind, Elissa could only feel utter horror at the walking, tangible beings that seem to have crawled out of the darkest pockets of her own mind. They reeked and they howled and they laughed gutturally at her pathetic attempts at defence as she repeatedly lifted her sword to shield herself from the unrelenting ferocity they attacked her with.

Fury burned through her for the fact that Daveth, the other recruit – Ser Jory, and Alistair were capable of holding their own and keeping abreast of the situation; all three were big men, clad in splint or decent mail and all three had clearly seen battle before.

Elissa had done needlework till the age of twelve:

Elissa play-fought with her brother using dull wooden swords:

Elissa shot arrows into piles of straw that were shaped like men and never moved:

Elissa floundered behind them now, trying to keep up.

_For the love of the Maker, Daveth is piss drunk…_ she remarked inwardly, kicking a dead Hurlock off of her blade.

The air was driven from her lungs and she was knocked off her feet, her mind flashing immediately to her last night in Highever when the exact same thing had happened. The Hurlock that had thrown her aside with its shield lurched closer to her, preparing to stick its rotted looking blade into her soft abdomen but Alistair placed himself between them, turning the foul creature's own strategy back on it, shoving it back a few feet with a well placed thrust with his shield.

"Get up." He implored over his shoulder, fending off the enraged darkspawn.

Elissa cast around, her fingers closing around her sword. "I may have twisted my ankle." She implored. "…I need a moment."

"We don't have a moment!" Alistair impressed, driving his elbow against the skull of a Genlock that was now attacking as well.

She lay in the middle of an open field with someone else standing over her once again, protecting her because she could not protect herself. She rolled to her side and planted her forearms on the ground, prepared to stand up at last, but shrunk back in surprise, pressing herself against the backs of Alistair's legs: All she could see was a great filthy Hurlock barrelling at them. Alistair still had his back to her and made no sign of being available at a moment's notice so she did the only logical thing that presented itself at the time: Punctuated by her anger directed at her own ineptitude, she ripped the hunting knife that she had casually observed earlier out of the top of Alistair's boot, ignoring his shout of surprise at the intrusion, and shot straight up to her feet, the momentum of the blade driving upwards with her movement gutting the darkspawn that challenged her. She stumbled back as its stinking insides tumbled out in a wet slop at her feet.

Alistair finished struggling with the Genlock and looked at her while she wiped strings of viscera off of her front and Daveth and Jory felled their respective foes nearby. "I don't suppose you see much fighting, being the Lady of Highever, do you?" He laughed privately to himself and shook his head when Elissa held out the bloody knife to him. "I get the feeling you're more suited to stabbing things than swinging a sword. Keep it if it means you'll do the same to every other darkspawn we come across." He nodded at the disembowelled Hurlock and sheathed his sword. He fumbled in the pocket of his belt and thrust a tiny glass vial into Elissa's gloved hand.

"At least you've made it clear that you don't mind blood."

She blinked at him, hesitating slightly before tugging the vial from his fingers, her countenance markedly different.

"On the contrary, Alistair – I hate blood." _Mine specifically._ His brow creased ever so slightly at her words and for the first time since she had met him, Elissa made note that this man was not so simple-minded as she presumed; she had given him good reason to take pause and he took it – the subtlest hint that she was of bad blood and was not only the Lady of Highever, but a madwoman as well.

There were times when Elissa relished her condition, with a morbid and perverse sort of pride, she enjoyed the freedom that came along with the accusation of insanity, the places it allowed her mind to travel unbridled and the weapon it could surely be used as to strike fear bewitch those who believed ignorantly that she was a dull-witted being to be pitied. Her delirium made her reckless and daring and alert, and her sadness bore her a deep and rich appreciation for the beautiful and hideous things in the world. She still couldn't help but marvel at Duncan's decision to make someone like her a warden.

Alistair knelt beside her and aided her in filling the vial with thick, inky blood. She took the opportunity for closeness to lean near to him and lower her voice.

"Three new wardens, three vials of darkspawn blood." She said quietly, keeping her hands busy. "For what purpose, I wonder?" She stared at him with an intensity that forced the young warden to meet her gaze.

His face was youthful and handsome, like Cailan's, it had seen much sun and bore few lines. There was an innocence about his appearance and she knew not if it was his shortly kept hair and expressive face, or the fact that he could not hold her eyes for long before turning his own away and back to the task at hand.

"We had best get back." He said, straightening and going to assist the other two.


	6. Bad In The Blood

"_You cannot fight it__  
__All the world denies it,__  
__Open up your eyelids:__  
__Let your demons run."_

_Beat The Devil's Tattoo – Black Rebel Motorcycle Club_

"… _his raptures were,_

_All air, and fire, which made his verses clear,_

_For that fine madness still he did retain,_

_Which rightly should possess a poet's brain." – Michael Drayton_

There was a cup being held out to her: It was a large but unadorned goblet of simple make, and one could not escape the morbid reality of the contents it held.

There was blood in the cup: It reflected blackly in the starlit night and looked nothing like the natural red, liquid substance she had come to know well in the years since her first bleeding as a woman. More than anything it looked like poison and it smelt like death. _It is death_, she concluded, eyes passing only with the vaguest interest over the still form of Daveth – there was blood on the rim of the simple cup too: The last imprint of life left by a dead man's lips.

She wordlessly watched Duncan slay Ser Jory with silent brutality, a small, somewhat frail voice inside her own mind remarking that he agreed to enlist and that his death was a fair price for his cowardice. His death was well-deserved, she told herself… until she realized her own knees shaking slightly. The voice in her mind shut up and with the skitter of claws on the inside of her skull, vanished.

She studied the glistening fluid in the chalice, feeling far calmer than she thought she would. There was a vigour in her, and rather than staring potential death in the face with fear, she was filled with a curious sort of duty and pride at the knowledge that her Father trusted that she would get this far. Likely he did not know about the drinking darkspawn blood part, but nevertheless, Elissa couldn't help but think that Bryce Cousland would not like to see his daughter falter now.

Elissa took the goblet from Duncan's hands, pausing momentarily before speaking: He had given her honest warning in time; it was only fair that she do the same for him. "On Tuesday I will rise at dawn and be your friend." She tilted the gore and watched it slide up the side and then back down when she levelled it again. It left a red-black film on the side of the cup that made her stomach turn. "I will prepare a hearty breakfast without complaint and I will jest and make merry. I will roll my bed and pack my tent and set off down the road, whistling with you a happy tune. If I am especially joyous, I may even sing a little as we travel." Despite the darkness of her revelation, she spoke pleasantly as she removed the stopper from her own vial of blood using her teeth, spitting in an incredibly unwomanly manner when the bitter taste fouled her lips. "Euuuurgh..."

She dabbed her lips clean daintily, restoring her femininity before continuing. "On Thursday you won't find me: I will retreat to solitude whenever opportunity allows; I will lurk in my tent, silent, apart from the turning of pages and the sound of quill on parchment. I will seek no companionship, nor pleasure. By this night, I will find myself devoid of sleep, for dreams escape me in exchange for a passionate and waking muse: I care little for the affairs of life by Thursday. I wish only to live in the world of Faerie and partake in the drinks of heathen gods, not to take up arms and fight." She looked up at the stars and took in the wonders she saw – the ones that were rarely seen and truly loved by anyone else - The ones that oft drove the breath from her lungs with their majesty. She then tipped the vial downwards to the earth and the dark blood flowed eagerly from the opening, joining what remained in the cup. She looked up and switched her gaze with deliberate and practiced pause between Duncan and Alistair; she knew how to ensure her words were never forgotten. "Come Saturday, you will find me dead." She promised. "Or perhaps Sunday, or the next Wednesday to follow; the day and time matters little – all that you must know is that you will eventually find me cold and asleep 'til the ages end, and you must know now that it is through no fault of your own." Her lip curled at Alistair's expression that indicated he was deeply disturbed in some way by this reality, and Duncan's own practiced look of indifference; she had to admit, the man was a fair leader, keeping his personal feelings far off to the side. Or perhaps he cared little for Elissa's monologue and self-given-prophecy of suicide. She lifted the cup to her lips.

"I am already bad in the blood... how now will I find toil and misery aligned twixt mine own curse and this abrasive stain?"

She tilted the cup and welcomed the thick blood into the open space between her lips, willing it in her mind to taste like a fine wine, but pushing on when it still tasted foul and rotten and not tart and fragrant. Somehow, despite being collected hours earlier the blood was still warm and she clenched her eyes shut and denied her body the instinct to spit it out by forcing her breathing to still as the un-holy substance coated the inside of her mouth, becoming increasingly hot with each second that passed.

_Swallow_, she urged herself. _Just swallow and have done with it..._

With effort that caused her tremendous physical pain, she forced the muscles in her throat down, falling to her hands and knees, the un-blemished surface of her armour scraping against the rough ground like a butcher's saw through bone.

"Elissa?" A voice called out from somewhere in the murky haze that had overwhelmed her vision. "Elissa?"

But then it was all white, and the earth shook and rattled under her and there was sound... so much indescribably loud sound. Elissa was well accustomed to nightmares and the tricks her broken mind would often play on her were naught but an annoyance, but this was something altogether different.

She felt her eyelids tear open and the sensation of the now molten-hot blood spurting revoltingly from her mouth and rolling down her jaw and neck despite her best efforts to prevent this. She meshed her teeth tightly together, forcing herself to swallow again, even though it was now blood mingled with sick being forced down her throat.

Her own ears were filled with the sound of her groaning deeply and she felt her spine contract and curl away from the rest of her body like a serpent avoiding a hot stick might coil into itself to avoid being burned. The voices grew louder and with anguish she realized that none of them made sense; they growled not a single comprehensible word and with terror she realized they were the guttural thrums of many darkspawn – thousands in fact.. She hissed and thrashed around on the ground, unaware any longer of what composed up and what defined down and what was hell and what was reality. It didn't even occur to her that she might die lest the convulsions cease.

The dangerous and violent fit continued to wrack her body bred for the purpose of nobility until blackness along with the roar of a great dragon finally took her. Two Grey Wardens stood still and silent nearby, witnessing everything.

Alistair stared rather sadly at her very still form. "That never gets any easier to watch." He said softly.

"No." Duncan grunted, stooping and grabbing Elissa by the shoulder, flipping her unceremoniously onto her side, lest she vomit some more and choke to death. "But you didn't go through The Joining in a comely manner either. No one does."

Alistair laughed quietly and ran a hand through his neatly kept hair. "I suppose not. At least she lived." He crouched next to her, sitting into the balls of his feet. "Do you really suppose she meant what she said about finding her dead one day? Seems kind of dark." He did understand now what she was talking about in the wilds and her cold gaze and her hatred of blood. She lacked peace of any sort: That's what she had been trying to explain. Now though... now she was peace: She was all pale skin and light freckles and dark hair that might have been well cared for at one time. "She doesn't seem mad. A bit hopeless maybe – " He leapt to his feet when her eyes flickered open, if only out of instinct and fear that she might not be finished being sick to her stomach.

Elissa stirred dozily from her place on the ground, looking green, but still chastely proud in bearing. Alistair watched as her long, dark ropes of hair unwound from the ground as she lifted herself onto her palms, blinking slowly with unfocused eyes. He felt his stomach drop and a blush creep over his face as he watched her wordlessly return to lucidity. Her eyes flicked up to his but darted away immediately, almost in shame.

"That," He began, holding out a water-skin which he knew she would be grateful for, "Was impressively disgusting."

She swiped the water skin and began to gulp down huge mouthfuls of clear, cool water that drove clean rivers through the quickly drying blood on her chin. "Is that meant to make me feel better?" She gasped eventually, wiping the sweat off her face with the palm of her glove. "'Tis an ill jest, be that the case."

He taunted her with the lift of an eyebrow, "So noble in bearing, Lady Cousland." Why tease her? Why bug her about the way she talked right after such an ordeal? Part of him decided it was to see if she had retained her humanity along with her life. "It must be exhausting work, drawing out all of those 'can't's' and 'won't's and turning them into fancy poetry.'"

She did something then that genuinely surprised him as it was without a doubt the most spirited thing she had done since he'd laid eyes on her: She leaned over and shoved him, her face naught but a exhausted smirk.

"Shhh." She rasped in a voice made of sand.

"How do you feel?" Duncan asked, patiently observing her movements as she slowly came to her feet. "Do you feel any different?"

_Wait_. She wanted to say. _Keep that question to yourself for now... I am still trying to figure it out for myself..._ she curled her fingers and batted her eyelashes and did a mental inventory of her brain and found that yes, actually, she did feel different: She felt angry but it was not the same impulsive and directionless anger that she was used to. This anger burned as hotly inside of her skin as the darkspawn blood had as it went down her throat. For the first time Elissa felt awake, aware and truly and unquenchably hungry for justice. She stared at the puddle of blood and vomit on the ground next to her feet.

"I – I drank it. It came back up but... but I think that I still swallowed some..." She observed distantly, mostly to herself. She looked at Duncan to answer his question. "I feel tired mostly, but... good." She sighed, her shoulders feeling heavy. "I apologize. Words escape me right now. I believe all I am capable of at the moment is asking, what next?"

She was so hot. So uncomfortably hot...


	7. Rhiannon

"_Thirty-day guarantee,_

_But they can't have meant me._

_After all I was born to a child-proof world._

_No sharp corners or glass,_

_Small objects or plastic bags._

_Please, these are death to a delicate girl."_

_Thirty Whacks – The Dresden Dolls_

Demoralized was the wrong word, but it was the first word that came to mind in terms of Elissa's current level of self-esteem. She was getting slightly better as she clumsily swung along as she aided in the fight to the beacon: She flinched a little less, and got knocked down far fewer times than before, but was still not confident enough in her skills in battle to stray far from Alistair's side. A cruel part of her – that is, the one who was doted on as a child and raised in a castle – took advantage of the brave man's attentiveness to her well being and his observance of her lack of skill. He knew that she poor in a fight and thus, took hits and blows that were intended for her while he valiantly kept her from harm and he helped her to her feet with a strong hand and an encouraging smile the few times that she did falter. Ashamedly, a small part of her felt damsel-y indeed.

However, there was an honesty and genuine quality to these actions that left her with no other option that to realize that his behaviours were not those of servitude to his better, but rather multiple acts that exemplified Duncan's promise that the Grey Wardens were a brotherhood and watched each other's backs. Duncan had told Elissa that Alistair was a recent recruit, but the concept of loyalty did not seem to be new to him at all.

"Sorry." She said sharply, innocently, when she slipped on some kind of visceral remains and grabbed him by the waist to keep from falling. "Sorry!" She repeated, instantly turning beetroot and hurrying ahead as fleetingly as her legs could carry her.

"Sorry?" He called out from behind and she heard the dull clang of a shield being driven into someone's – or something's – face.

She was learning in short order, and much to her own feminine fluster, that Alistair was a good man, which caused her face to pinken around the freckles whether she liked it or not and she liked it not for she was a Grey Warden now and she had a task set ahead of her that far overshadowed mooning over a handsome man like an innocent maiden. Mooning over men like an innocent maiden was expected of her before – It was commonplace: Mooning was her glinting shard of metal, clutched in trembling knuckles. Mooning was her cured and battle-worn armour. People would have raised their eyebrows disapprovingly if she hadn't done it.

For a woman, battles were not fought with swords and mauls, but rather with words and subtle acts of coercion: A vulnerable posture, delicate and coy could send a thousand men unquestioningly into battle and a well timed but intent filled glance over the shoulder to meet with the right eyes in the heady light of dusk could be more persuasive than any implement of torture. But now... now it all seemed so meaningless and inappropriate given the circumstance; the darkspawn were not going to simply take knee for all of her feminine wiles.

_Handsome..._

_Broad in the shoulder..._

_No older than five and twenty by my eyes..._

_Kindly voice... light hair... warm eyes and -_

She mused on and on in her mind and her hand flew of its own accord, driving her hunting into the neck of a genlock.

_Oh my..._

"Whatever you're thinking about right now must be fascinating, but we have to go!" She felt Alistair's hand wrap around her thin wrist and she was pulled up the stairs, trying desperately not to trip on her feet or slip on any more gore as they climbed.

"D – do you enjoy being a Grey Warden?" She stammered as he hauled her along. Elissa winced; Alistair was chivalrous indeed, but perhaps not nearly as gentle of touch as he was of voice. "Of course right now would be a foolish time to have such mindless conversation... it's just I – I think more clearly when I think of all the things at once."

"All the things?" Alistair repeated incredulously. "How can you think of all the things?" He pushed her against the wall and pressed her to it with his back, grabbing the hurlock that had just swiped at them by the joints of its armour and dumping it down the stairs. He sighed hard and grabbed her hand again, pulling her up steps faster than she could keep up. The question repeated to her might have made her feel stupid if he hadn't been laughing when he said it.

"I only prefer to, is all." She said. "Now would you be so kind as to assist me with my query as I was kind enough to cater to yours?"

"I do." He said, pausing at the top of the stairs, placing his hand on the door. His voice was earnest and there was no lie in his words. "I do very much enjoy it." He adjusted his grip on his longsword, licked his lips, and pushed open the door, another rather silly grin splitting his face when he looked into the room. "Ooh look! A troll."

The smell of the thing hit her first, but then she saw the beast, she nearly turned on her heel and ran, but she held her ground and looked at Alistair with the hope the her face was brave despite the fear in her heart. "What shall we do? What shall I do?"

Alistair lifted his shield and rolled his shoulders. "These things are slow and stupid... but that doesn't mean I want to get hit by one though, so we have one of two options I think. We could both charge it and try to hack it to death before it kills us, or..." He sighed and bit his lip, mulling over the options. "Or I could distract the bloody thing while you find a quick and nimble way to put that knife that I gave you to use." He nodded at the bloodied pig-sticker, dripping in her hand, smiling rather slyly as he did so.

"Kill such an enormous creature with so small a weapon?" She said, unable to accept this as a logical approach.

"Elissa, we really don't have the luxury of time to argue about this." Elissa frowned at Alistair's words, "Cripple it; go for tendons and joints until you can start bleeding out more vital areas like its neck and arms. Just be quick about it: Make your attack and then fall back to a safe distance until I can open another window for you."

"You have put a great deal of faith in me, Alistair. Best pray to the Maker that I don't let you down."

The troll snorted in the chamber, boring with its most recent kill, it glanced around, great snout covered with sticky burgundy gore. Alistair paid it no mind though; he only looked at Elissa with patient understanding, and a gamesome twist of the lips.

"I think you should give yourself a bit more credit." He remarked.

He left her with that, for the moment had now passed and he was edging into the room, ready for the first strike. Elissa hung back by the door, clothed in her fantastic armour and holding an ordinary hunting knife, debating deeply how exactly to go about this.

_How am I to be any better at troll-slaying than Alistair? He is stronger. He seems to think I have strengths that he does not possess… which is ridiculous, as what little I know of war is plain for all to see: I am no warrior._

Her back felt cold when the realization struck her; Alistair didn't expect her to be a warrior. Alistair knew she wasn't a warrior. Alistair had told her to keep to the shadows and advised her to use the small, concealable knife as a tool to bleed out her foes simply because she was nobility_._

_I belong to a class of high-bred cutthroats and assassins_: _Since the dawn of time, the rich of the land have carried the keys and played our silent games of espionage while the common people suffer for it. Why… he thinks I am no better than a cheating sneak-thief!_

Everyone knew the legends and histories of the highborn ladies sold into the wedding beds of men far too old and frail to be proud husbands. "_Oh Maker above it was dreadful, he died in his sleep before our marriage could be consummated!_" The highborn lady would say, with her face wet from forced tears and her fingers still wrapped around the pillow that had stilled her husband's breathing forever. A clever Teryn might poison a wife who couldn't bear him sons, or have an excuse to have her executed conveniently formulated… it was all a big dark game of mystery, gossip and murder.

Clearly, Alistair assumed noble blood was interchangeable with being a back alley shadow-killer and Elissa couldn't think of a single worthy argument off the top of her head to prove him wrong.

_Very well then_, Elissa thought, setting aside her own immediate feelings of indignation_. Perhaps we will think of it less as war, and more as a serpent striking out at an unsuspecting mouse. _

The troll roared then; a dark, hideous belch that left her ears ringing, and she knew she could philosophise about her role in this fight for much longer; it was time to act.

In contrast to Alistair's outright and brazen charge into the room, Elissa slipped in quietly, but quickly immediately noting the few darkspawn that circled the fray attempting to draw Alistair's attention away from the troll and towards them in order to leave him vulnerable to battering and crushing from the enormous troll.

The room was circular and high-ceilinged, allowing for her to give the scuffle a wide berth as she silently studied what was happening and chose her first target; the hurlock on the outside edge of the fight. It was weaker than the others, flagging as it still tried to destroy Alistair in its desperation.

She crept around the edge of the room, still surveying the hurlock for the best place to drive the hunting knife into its body. It wielded a short but vicious looking axe in its right hand, raising it high above its shoulder before each strike. Elissa stood in the shadows and waited with unpracticed patience; she knew it was vital that she wait and observe just like she observed men and women of court silently, keeping to herself and waiting until they revealed more that way than they did with legitimate small talk.

Up, up, up the hurlock's arm went and for biding her time she came away prosperous; she shot out from the shadows in two long steps, her footfalls muted by boots designed for stealth. She grabbed the raised arm with her left hand and without hesitation, crushed the knife into the soft, broad space of flesh where the hurlock's kidney was. It fell with a bellow and she dragged the knife across its throat to silence it for good before darting back into the maze of shadows and debris that were just as much her armour as the leather that covered her body, shaking with adrenaline, but victorious nonetheless.

The other darkspawn paused only briefly to exchange looks, wordlessly deciding what to do with their phantom enemy before breaking away from Alistair and the troll and fanning out towards the darkness that Elissa hid in.

Indeed it was too bad for them that by the time they arrived at the place in the shadows she fled into she was no longer there and was instead, waiting quite safely on the other side of the room watching as confusion to set in.

She had picked off two more and repeated the strategy twice before she was finally cornered by the remaining foe; another hurlock. Turning her own trick against her in the malarkey, it had stalked her while she took out its comrades, backing her against a wall only moments after she bled her most recent victims.

Elissa could see over the hurlock's shoulder that Alistair was still well-engaged with the troll. In fact he was taking a tremendous beating. His shield was indeed impressive, but it did little against the obsidian-hard horns of the monstrous culmination of matted fur and muscle as it battered against him: She had to hurry but she had to do it without alerting the troll to her presence.

The hurlock took another step towards her, cracked, broken teeth meshed in a sick sneer as it prepared to end her life. She stepped backwards until she felt the hard brick wall against her back and she slid down it, curled in a protective ball, a tiny sob seeping from her lips as the killer loomed abover her.

The hurlock laughed at her display of fear; it took pleasure in her weakness and with some amount of triumph amidst her terror, Elissa noted that this time, no one would get between herself and death. Not her mother, not Alistair: She was naked.

The hurlock bent and roared in her face; it was a sick, twisted hiss that smelled of decay and fear and coated her face in something that should have been saliva, but wasn't.

"N-no… please don't." She whimpered, turning her face away from the creature's pungent breath. It paid her plea little mind, only wrinkling its nose and sniffing at her. She wondered if it could sense the blood of its kin inside of her. "Please…" She turned her tear-filled eyes up at it and begged the Maker to give her what she was desperate for. The hurlock raised its sword above its head and she instantly sat forward, uncurling herself and pulling the darkspawn's legs out from under it, hopping atop its chest and pummelling her knife hilt-deep into its face as many times as she could. She rolled away from the empty eye sockets and pulpy scraps of flesh draped over scratched and shattered bone, breathing heavily, but not taking the time for tea and cakes by any means; there was still a troll

Feeling invigorated and empowered at last, she scrambled to her feet.

"I'm coming!" She bellowed, sprinting across the room parallel to the troll's back.

_There is little to do and the option is plain to see; I must throw myself._

So she did. She launched herself across the surface of the cobble floor, using to her advantage the sleek, cured armour that coated her, drawing her knife in a diagonal slash across the right tendon of the troll's right leg.

She landed roughly on her shoulder, but instantly picked herself up and scuttled into the shadows again before the wounded troll could reach back with its arm and swat her away.

A relieved and slightly proud huff of air fell from her mouth as she watched the troll fall heavily to one knee.

"It's still cranky!" Alistair's shout reminded her. "And deadly!" He dodged a fist and landed a well-swung hit to the troll's arm and Elissa launched into action once again, this time going straight for the monster's back. "Wait! What are you doing?" His words were drowned by her own footsteps as she took a long-shot of a flying leap onto the troll's back, her eyes clenched shut until she felt thick, woolly fur under her fingers.

She wrested herself up onto the undulating, flexing shoulders of the troll as it flailed and bucked in an effort to throw her off, but she clung tight and buried her knife into the hollow part of the left side of its neck, just above the collarbone.

The troll's movements became more and more erratic and violent but she held on, feeling the knife tear the tendons and hard muscle fibre beneath it, she jerked the blade violently out of the troll and inserted it again a few inches higher, cranking it back and forth like a winch until blood spurted everywhere and the troll staggered, finally bucking her off its back. She landed like a sack of flour on the hard floor and struggled to breathe; her vision swam and her lungs simply refused to fill. She rolled to her side, eyes bulging, desperately trying to pull in some precious oxygen.

The troll fell nearby with a heavy thud and she knew it was over, despite her overwhelming inability to breath. Lead filled her lungs and she was aware of the harsh, vacuous noise her lungs made as her throat rattled and wheezed in an attempt to draw air. She forced herself onto her hands and knees, casting around for the torch that would be needed to light the beacon and finish the deed.

She coughed deeply, sensing blood trickling out of her mouth, and the thick crackle that left her mouth, aware of the internal injuries she surely had, but she still rose to her feet, grabbing the nearest flaming piece of wood to her and flinging it into the kindle and plank that made up the beacon.

"Elissa… move…"

She whirled around too late; the last thing she saw was Alistair on his knees, peppered with arrow shafts. Confusion darted away like a small bird into the sky and her own excruciating pain greeted her less than a blink later and all that was earthly and warm became so splendidly far away.


End file.
